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by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 16:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21122126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: When Aziraphale notices Crowley eschew going back to his flat at the end of the night in favor of sleeping in his Bentley outside his shop, Aziraphale braves a rainstorm to find out why.





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bowser14456](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bowser14456/gifts).

> Written for the tumblr ask box prompt: "For drabble list #2 Ineffable Husbands "When I'm with you, I'm home." Crowley to Zira."

Aziraphale hums happily as he removes a saucepan of milk from the stove and prepares his mug of cocoa – a plucky, rich, Bolivian blend he had smuggled into Soho a few decades earlier. The moment the milk hits the shredded chocolate, his entire bookshop smells sweeter, homier, cozier (if such a thing is possible).

Vivaldi’s _Four Seasons_ spins on the gramophone - a rare original pressing he purchased from an estate sale longer ago than he cares to remember. Strains of _Summer_ fill the air, the notes dancing off those long silenced violin strings evoking memories of warmth and whimsy; bright afternoons spent strolling through fragrant grass, feeding ducks at the pond, soaking in felicity in all its romantic forms.

Ironic since it’s currently hours before dawn in the middle of autumn, the sky black as fresh tar and raining buckets outside.

Aziraphale sets his mug of cocoa down on his desk and takes a peek out the closest window. Beneath the relentlessly beating spray, a Bentley sits, parked alone by the curb, a dark sentry guarding his storefront. Aziraphale sighs. It must be _freezing_ outside! As the thought passes through his mind, a violent wind blows, pushing the rain sideways and making his glass panes shiver. The Bentley’s engine is off. Aziraphale can see that from here. Which means no heater. Even if Crowley has miracled the heater on, there has to be a chill.

Crowley doesn’t like the chill air. He dresses in layers and wool coats during the winter. But the last time Aziraphale saw him (roughly eight hours ago) he only had a thin button down and a satin jacket on – more style than substance in Aziraphale’s opinion.

Why is he out there? It’s three in the morning! Why isn’t he home, riding out the storm with a bottle of whiskey, lying beneath the thick comforter on his enormous bed? It sounds like the perfect way to spend a blustery evening like this to Aziraphale, who rarely likes to sleep.

A streak of lightning brightens the sky and Aziraphale sees him, his profile painting a stoic silhouette on the driver’s side window. He must be miserable, sitting upright in that cramped leather seat. Aziraphale would say he’s being ridiculous and stubborn, but he has no clue what about! Thunder pounds out a discordant rhythm overhead. A flash of lightning follows on its heels, then another boom of thunder immediately after that, indicating this storm is going nowhere.

If tonight is anything like last night and the night before, neither is Crowley.

And Aziraphale needs to find out why.

***

_Knock-knock-knock_.

“Mrrr …” Crowley stirs grumpily, squeezing his eyelids shut tight. He’s not asleep, just resting his eyes. The lightning overhead along with the raindrops reflecting the neon shop signs like a thousand liquid points of light are doing his head in. The pounding of the rain on the body of his car pings inside his ears like a twenty-gallon drum of tailor’s pins overturned on a rusted tin roof.

He couldn’t sleep even if he wanted to.

_Knock-knock-knock._

A second disturbance but louder. Crowley refuses to open his eyes.

“Go … _away_ …” he mumbles through his teeth, hoping his voice carries. He doesn’t have the energy to move more than that. It’s this blasted cold! He’d decided to let his body shut down naturally instead of wasting a miracle to get the heater running.

Didn’t need anyone downstairs knowing his whereabouts.

The cold would feel less mind-numbing if he turned into a snake, but he doesn’t like to do that too often.

_KnockKnockKnock!_

“I’m not drunk, officer,” he groans, fully prepared to shift his head into something hideous and tell the nosy cop, bothering him for the ninth time, where to stick it. “I told you, I’m catching a few zzz’s. I’m in no condition to drive,” he lies.

“It’s not a police officer, Crowley!” a voice shouts over the rain. “It’s _me_!”

Crowley’s eyes pop open. “Aziraphale?”

“Yes! Can I come in? I’m about to drown out here!”

“Oh. Right. Sorry ‘bout that.” Crowley reaches over and opens the door, wondering why Aziraphale didn’t do it himself. It was unlocked. But as Aziraphale climbs in, the rainwater avoiding his body as if he’s wrapped in an invisible slicker, Crowley sees that the angel’s arms are full, a large-ish picnic basket hugged to his chest.

“Am I taking you somewhere?” Crowley asks as he watches Aziraphale settle in with his basket. “It’s a bit early in the morning for a picnic. A smidge damp, too.”

“No, silly. I’ve brought you some provisions. I have a blanket …” Aziraphale pulls a tartan flannel out from inside his coat and spreads it over the demon’s lap without prompting. Then he rifles through his basket, naming off items as he presents them. “A Thermos of cocoa, a tin of biscuits, some finger sandwiches …” He lifts a bottle of amber liquid. “Rum?”

“That’s the ticket,” Crowley chuckles, reaching for the bottle. “Mighty nice of you. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Crowley unscrews the cap and takes a swig. “This is quite the spread you’ve assembled. What’s the occasion?”

“I wanted to ask you a question, if you don’t mind.”

Crowley snorts. “You wanted to ask me a question? At _three in the morning_?”

“Well, you see, that’s part of it, yes.” Aziraphale opens the tin of biscuits and offers Crowley one. He picks a chocolate shortbread and sticks it in his mouth, devouring it without tasting it, Aziraphale suspects - unwilling to turn him down considering Aziraphale tromped out in the rain to give it to him. “What are you doing here? You’ve been out here the past few nights.”

“I’m keeping an eye on you,” Crowley says, covering up discomfort with another swig of rum.

“Why do you need to keep an eye on me? Is there something you’re not telling me? Something you heard from …?” Aziraphale doesn’t say it, letting his eyes finish his question by shooting a pointed glance downward.

“No,” Crowley assures him. “Not at all.”

“You needn’t worry about me so much, you know,” Aziraphale says, sighing with relief nonetheless. “I’m prepared for any possible attack. I have salt, a crucifix, a bucket of water under my desk, ready to be blessed at a moment’s notice. I even have a sword! Not my flaming sword, of course, but a serviceable piece of steel. I can take care of myself.”

“I know that.”

“So, you can go home, if you’d like.”

Crowley turns his head slightly to peer out the windshield. In the deadlock created between the too bright lights outside and the Stygian shadows inside, Aziraphale sees Crowley bite his lips together. “No. I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Crowley puts a hand on the steering wheel, curling his fingers around the pebbly surface and gripping hard, then releasing again. His pose suggests that he might actually turn the car on and drive off despite his protestations. Aziraphale would still be in the vehicle with him, but that’s a moot point. “My flat … it doesn’t feel like home to me. Not so much. Not anymore.”

“And your Bentley does?” Aziraphale teases, though right as he says it, he realizes it very well might.

“No.” Crowley swallows. “You.”

Aziraphale’s brows draw together as he attempts to wring meaning out of that short answer. “Me what?”

“It’s _you, _Aziraphale. Wherever you are, _that_ feels like home to me. When I’m with you … I’m home.”

“Because I remind you of Heaven?” Aziraphale ventures. He doesn’t want to misunderstand Crowley. There have been too many misunderstandings during the course of their Arrangement, their friendship, and whatever this is trying to become.

“No, for Satan’s sake!” Crowley groans, frustration taking hold. “Because you’re _you_! You’re the only true friend I’ve ever had! And at some point over the past 6000 years, you became my guiding light. The only thing that matters to me in this pathetic Universe. I’m not here because I enjoy sitting in my car in the rain. I’m here because the farther I am from you, the unhappier I become. And contrary to popular opinion, I don’t enjoy being unhappy.”

“I … I never knew that,” Aziraphale says softly.

“Yeah, well …”

There’s something more to that sentence. Aziraphale knows there is. But regardless of what’s going on behind those yellow eyes of Crowley’s, he’s come to the conclusion that he’s said enough.

Pity because Aziraphale would love to hear more.

“I see,” Aziraphale says for lack of anything better. “Well, in that case, would you like to come inside? Get out of the cold?”

Crowley makes an eggy noise. “I don’t need you pitying me, angel.”

“I’m not _pitying_ you. Believe it or not, I don’t quite relish being alone either.”

“Not,” Crowley replies.

“In fact,” Aziraphale continues, “there are a great many things I don’t enjoy doing alone.”

“You could have fooled me.” But Crowley decides to bite. Aziraphale obviously has something up his sleeve. As long as it’s not a card trick or a dead dove, he’s game to find out. “Like what?”

“Like reading …”

“Yeah, _right_! You forget all about me when you’re reading!”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t like having you around.”

“What else?”

“Drinking …”

Crowley’s mouth pulls down in a thoughtful frown. “All right. I’ll give you that one.”

“Sleeping …”

Crowley laughs. “You don’t sleep.”

“That’s because I don’t like to sleep alone.”

Crowley looks over at Aziraphale, disbelieving, as the angel’s clear blue eyes stare back.

Stare back _hopefully_.

Crowley doesn’t know what Aziraphale is getting at, but he’s not the type to give in when he’d rather say _no_. He’s invited Crowley into his bookshop dozens of times to talk and drink and otherwise socialize.

But invite him inside to _sleep_? Presumably together?

That intrigues Crowley … too much to say no.

“Maybe I _should_ come inside then. It’s been a long night. You look like you might need your rest.”

Aziraphale smiles beneath the violet glow of the restaurant across the street, casting him a wily aura. “That would be a great help to me,” he says, repacking his picnic basket.

“I’m nothing if not helpful,” Crowley says, opening the door and exiting the car, bottle of rum in tow, while Aziraphale finishes up.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Let’s not get too carried away, my dear.”


End file.
